


the light that shines on you

by solacefruit



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Beta Read, Gen, several background characters, the usual name tinkering etc.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 07:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solacefruit/pseuds/solacefruit
Summary: “In fact,” said Crookedstar, “you remind me so much of Willowstorm.”“Yeah?” Silverpaw’s voice was once again muffled.“You already know that,” he said.“Yeah,” said Silverpaw. “But you could tell me again?”Crookedstar purred. “All right, but let’s get going. I’ll talk on the way.”





	the light that shines on you

**Author's Note:**

> _just open your window_   
_and follow your memories_   
_upstream..._

Crookedstar finished grooming himself as he sat outside the leader’s den and watched as cats began to make preparations for no-moon night. The sky above was finally dark; an endless number of stars glittered coldly down upon Riverclan, brighter than ever in the absence of the moon. 

Nearby, two of the older apprentices preened and admired each other, while not much further away, a queen and some other warriors were watching over a litter of young kittens as they pawed at each other, only half-listening to their mother’s soft explanations. It was their first time out of the nursery on no-moon night—but they were still too young to really understand the fuss. To them, nothing could matter more than playing pretend in the warm newleaf evening, pouncing on the twitching tails of the encouraging warriors and chasing their littermates through the whispery grass. 

There were no kittens to name this no-moon night, no apprentices to announce, no new warriors to celebrate, and Mudfur had already welcomed the ancestors at dusk, as was tradition, which meant that Crookedstar himself had no pressing role to play until just before dawn. It was rare to have so few duties on the holy night, so he intended to make the most of it. 

Crookedstar watched the kittens tumble for a little while longer before getting to his feet and padding over to the circle of cats. 

“_N’hyara_,” said Crookedstar. It was a greeting so old that it had once been several words, but generations of repetition every holy night had made it small, only a mouthful of sound. Even so, every cat in Riverclan was brought up to know what it meant: _together under no moon_. The gathered cats echoed it back to him with deferential nods. 

“Your litter seems to be thriving, Honeystripe,” said Crookedstar. He held out a tempting paw and one of the kittens—a tawny-coloured tabby—pounced at it, missing entirely and landing in the grass. 

The queen looked pleased. “Thank you.”

“I was wondering if any of you have seen my daughter,” he continued. “She seems to be missing.” _Again_, he thought.

The warriors looked at each other. 

“Our apologies,” said Stonefur, as beside him Mistfoot nodded. “We got back from the dusk patrol only a little while ago.”

“We’ve been here for a while, but she hasn’t been in the camp,” said Beetlenose, inclining his head to Mallowtail. 

“I did see Greypool passing through before, though,” said Mallowtail. “She was speaking to the elders. Perhaps they might know.”

“Thank you,” said Crookedstar. “Good evening to you all.” 

The elders were settled beside the large bush of dogwood that marked the entrance to the elders’ den. It was nestled on the other end of the campsite, away from squeaking kits and over-excitable young apprentices. As Crookedstar approached, he noticed that the elders had arranged themselves into a telltale ring.

“N’hyara, oracle,” said Ploverpelt, the first to notice him. “It is a beautiful night. No changes on the way, I hope?”

“N’hyara, no,” replied Crookedstar, “not tonight. The sky will stay clear.”

“Perfect!” said Pinefrost after greeting him as well. He was intently watching another elder counting out the pieces. “You will join us for a round, storm-touched? It is Rookstream’s vigil at the shrine this night so we are one player less than usual.”

“I’m afraid not. I am looking for Silverpaw. Do you know where she may be?”

“I believe she and her littlermates are out along the riverbank,” said Dappleface, as each cat reached out for their two pebbles and drew them under their front paws. “They went out that way some time ago and have not come back yet. I would try there first, weather-teller.”

“Thank you,” said Crookedstar. “Good luck.”

He padded away, leaving the elders to start their game of _one, some, or none_. Being asked to join was of course an honour—albeit one that he, as leader, was often offered—but one round too easily became several, and he wanted to find Silverpaw before dawn drew too near. 

It didn’t take long to reach the river from camp.

The water was high up the bank tonight and the current was flowing strong, full with recent newleaf rain. It slid quietly alongside the length of Riverclan territory, wide and glossy and black, half-hidden behind the tall reeds and shivering rushes. Starlight shimmered along its surface, gently made to flicker between ripples. A warm breeze blew from behind Crookedstar, ruffling his fur on its way upstream.

He followed it, sniffing occasionally at the newly-flowering marsh marigolds and other waterside plants for a hint of familiar scent. But there was no sign of Silverpaw, only the earthy smell of riverbank mud and the damp taste of water in the air. 

Eventually, he found them some way down the river, in the shadow of a weeping willow. 

Silverpaw was sitting with Grasspaw, talking as they gazed out over the river at the distant bank. 

Crookedstar dropped into a low crouch. The long grass folded around him as he stalked towards the back of the tree, prowling in a wide arch to avoid the young apprentices catching sight of him. The breeze tickled the tips of his ears as he reached the roots of the willow, and paused.

“—so _anyway_,” said Grasspaw, “I’ll keep pretending to say some stuff while you—”

“Ha!” said Silverpaw. She sprang up and around, reaching Crookedstar in a few bounds and landing squarely on top of him. Her oversized paws battered against his shoulders and she toppled to the side into the grass, still clinging on to his long fur. Her hind paws kicked gently at his face. 

Crookedstar tried to speak but got kicked on the nose. “Fft,” he said, before pinning her legs down with his own front paws. 

Silverpaw muttered something through a mouthful of his fur.

“What was that?”

She spat out the clump she had been holding between her teeth. “I _said_, that’s not fair.” With at attempt at elegance, she tried to disentangle herself and sat up beside him. “Your paws are so much bigger than mine.”

Crookedstar sat up as well, watching her wash the imaginary blood of battle from her face. 

Grasspaw trotted over, tail high. 

“N’hyara,” they said to Crookedstar. 

“Oh, yeah, that,” said Silverpaw, “N’hyara.”

Crookedstar gave his daughter a look before turning back to Grasspaw. “N’hyara,” he replied back. “Enjoying the evening?”

Grasspaw nodded. Silverpaw weaved between them to bump up against the other apprentice. 

“Grasspaw noticed you from way off,” she said. “They caught your scent on the wind.”

“Well done,” said Crookedstar. Grasspaw puffed out their chest a little, looking both pleased and slightly embarrassed by their sister’s boasting. “Seems like I won’t be able to sneak up on you again.”

Silverpaw flicked her tail. “We’re not _kits _anymore, you know,” she said. “Only a few moons from now, we’ll be warriors. By the way,” she added, in what she probably thought was a casual way, “how _many _moons will that be?”

“We’ll see,” said Crookedstar, a rumble of purr in his chest. “There’s a lot more to being a warrior than being able to sniff out a lumbering big fellow like me sitting downwind.”

Silverpaw sighed. 

“Are you out here alone?” asked Crookedstar. 

Grasspaw shook their head. “No, Starlingpaw and Eelflower went hunting upriver.” 

“Would you go and find them, Grasspaw? Let them know I’ve come by,” said Crookedstar. “I’d like to walk with Silverpaw and visit the shrine, just the two of us.”

Grasspaw nodded, then bumped cheeks with Silverpaw. “See you later.”

They bounded around the other side of the willow and away between the rushes, leaving Crookedstar alone with his daughter. Silverpaw, now without an audience to swagger in front of, seemed to shrink a little smaller as Grasspaw loped away, and suddenly looked sheepish when Crookedstar spoke.

“I was speaking to your mentor a few days ago,” he said, calmly. “She said that you’ve been hard to find this past half-moon.”

Silverpaw’s ears flattened slightly. “I’ve been practicing my stealthing,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Crookedstar. “So really, you should see how not being able to find me is a _good_ thing.”

“Mm-hm,” said Crookedstar. “She also mentioned that several times when she _has_ found you, you’ve been on the other side of the river.”

Silverpaw’s ears twitched.

“Is that true?” asked Crookedstar.

Silverpaw gave a mighty sigh of what could only be exasperation, and prowled away from him. 

“You _know_ it is,” she said, pacing beneath the willow. “Yes! Fine! _Sometimes I_ swim across the river. But it’s _our _river, I don’t know why I shouldn’t. It’s not like Thunderclan is fishing from the bank—they don’t know how—and besides, I don’t think they would eat frogs, which is usually what I find there,_ and_ I saw a Thunderclan apprentice get scared by a heron once and they didn’t even know I was in the reeds watching, so it’s not like I’m hurting anyone. It’s really not a big deal. _Anyway_—” she said, taking in another big gulp of air “—how are we supposed to learn to swim properly if we’re not allowed to practice? Next time we have to fight Thunderclan, we’re going to have to swim all the way across, fight, and then swim back, and I want to be ready! Paddling around just off the bank isn’t good enough. And I’m not sorry!”

She stopped pacing and looked at Crookedstar expectedly, bristling with defiance. 

“Well?” she said, after a moment. 

“What well?” replied Crookedstar, trying not to sound too amused. 

“Well!” said Silverpaw. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“What would you like me to say? ‘You’re not allowed to leave the camp’?” 

Silverpaw’s jaw dropped, eyes wide.

“I’m _not_ saying that,” said Crookedstar. “But I _did_ tell you I don’t want you crossing the river. You’ve disobeyed me, your clan leader.” He gave her a moment to soak in his words. “Why do you keep doing it?”

He was careful to keep judgement out of his voice. In truth, he wasn’t angry with her: all young cats thought they knew best and pushed their luck at any chance they got. But he _was _curious. 

“I told you,” she said, sitting down, “I just don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to—”

“No,” said Crookedstar, his voice gentle, “that’s not an answer. Why do you like that side of the bank so much?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulder blades, but said nothing. 

“Cherished reflection,” he said, and watched her do an embarrassed little wiggle on the spot, “there must be some reason?”

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I just… it’s like...” She glanced back to the river. “You know how when you see a feather floating by and you just have to try to get it?” she said. “It’s just a feeling you get that’s so big that you have to? It’s like that.” 

“Being impulsive?” teased Crookedstar. Silverpaw’s tail swept the ground, annoyed. “It’ll pass.”

“No, it’s more than that, that was a bad example,” said Silverpaw. She seemed to gather her thoughts and tried again. “Maybe you don’t feel it,” she said, “but it’s like there’s something out there calling to me, all the time. There’s so _much_ out there in the world and sometimes it just… doesn’t feel enough. To live here forever, I mean, and never go outside our borders. I want to explore. I want to discover new things! Sometimes,” she said, half to herself, “it’s so hard to stay still and _be good_ and know I’m going to do the same thing every night for the rest of my life.”

She gave him a forlorn look. 

“I’m a bad Riverclan cat, aren’t I?” she said, eventually. 

Crookedstar got up and padded over to sit beside her, pressing his nose to the stripes on her brow in a little kiss. 

“No,” he said, “you’re not a bad Riverclan cat.” 

She put her head against the thick fur of his chest, as if to listen to his heartbeat.

“In fact,” said Crookedstar, “you remind me so much of Willowstorm.”

“Yeah?” Silverpaw’s voice was once again muffled. 

“You already know that,” he said. 

“Yeah,” said Silverpaw. “But you could tell me again?”

Crookedstar purred. “All right, but let’s get going. I’ll talk on the way.”

They padded together away from the willow and headed inland, towards where the dirt path to the bridge split the Riverclan territory in two. In the warmer seasons, there were always long-walkers nearby, gathered in their campsite beyond the hedge, but no-moon night was always a safe time to travel. The lights the _sthyin-naia_ took with them everywhere in the dark gave every cat plenty of warning to run or hide. 

“Your mother felt much the same way you do, I think,” said Crookedstar, as Silverpaw padded beside him. “Maybe even more so, because she was only _half_-Riverclan. Her father, as you know, was a Windclan cat.”

“But she was born here, in Riverclan,” said Silverpaw. 

“Yes, that’s right,” replied Crookedstar. “She was born in our nursery but given back to Windclan not long after.”

“Because Windclan insisted,” said Silverpaw. 

Crookedstar tilted his head to look at her. “Perhaps you could tell it to me? You seem to know it well by now.”

Silverpaw seemed torn between embarrassment and pride. She muttered something that sounded a little like, “you tell it better.”

“All right,” said Crookedstar. “You can correct me if I get it wrong. I’m getting old, you know.”

Silverpaw scoffed. 

“So Willowstorm and your aunt were taken to Windclan, but Hailstar decided it was wrong to separate them from their mother and her clan, and eventually they were returned to us.” 

“Windclan didn’t like that,” said Silverpaw. 

“They didn’t,” agreed Crookedstar, “but they did accept it in the end. We are usually on peaceful terms with Windclan and although they felt the kits were theirs, they recognised that they would be best left with us. The kits had been with Riverclan too long for them ever to belong fully in Windclan by that point, anyway.”

When Silverpaw was younger, she’d asked what that had meant. Crookedstar himself had only understood once he had become Riverclan’s deputy and Hailstar had explained the whole situation. According to the old leader, the Windclan superstition was that any kitten could become a fully recognised Windclan cat--but only if they were raised properly, within the Windclan nursery. Exactly what properly meant, Hailstar had never been certain, but he said it had something to do with teaching them the right stories from the moment they could hear. 

It had never made much sense to either of them, nor to Silverpaw when he’d told her. Any cat with Riverclan blood belonged in Riverclan. Their blood was rare and valuable, even when mixed with another clan. Every descendant of River was laced with the divine. 

“But even though Hailstar recognised them as part of our clan, your mother and aunt always felt different,” continued Crookedstar as he and Silverpaw padded across the dirt path. “In their own ways, they both worked hard to prove they belonged here.”

“And their Windclan parts helped!” said Silverpaw. 

“It certainly seems that way,” said Crookedstar. “Willowstorm was one of Riverclan’s greatest raiders: alert and quick and cunning and sometimes I think a little_ too _adventurous.” He glanced at his daughter, who tossed her head with a tinge of pride. “She got herself into all kinds of trouble—and got _out _of it again, which is the impressive part, by the way. She had wandering in her bones, just like you do. I don’t think I ever saw her happier than when she was sprinting along a rooftop, the wind against her face.” 

“_And_ she brought you trinkets,” said Silverpaw, slyly.

“You mean you?” said Crookedstar, purring when Silverpaw scrunched her nose up in distaste. 

“Ugh,” she said. “No, I mean your treasures.” 

“Oh, _those_,” said Crookedstar, enjoying himself. “Yes, she was generous. She would always bring me something home when she went raiding. She had a wonderful eye for finding beauty in unexpected places.” 

_She saw it in me_, thought Crookedstar. 

“And your aunt Greypool,” he continued, “she has a talent for words like no-one else! I’ve heard the elders say that’s the Windclan in her. She spent most of her apprenticeship learning our stories and history from them, and I don’t think she’s ever forgotten a single thing they’ve told her. Which is lucky for me,” he added. “Her counsel is invaluable. One day, she’ll be an elder herself and all of Riverclan for generations will benefit from her wisdom.”

Silverpaw nodded in satisfaction. 

They had followed the edge of the path to the hedges that marked the shining ones’ campsite and travelled the next leg of the journey in silence, ears pricked for danger. The two of them padded softly along, hidden by the hedge, until they reached the fence that lined the road and followed it upstream. 

“You should be proud of where you come from,” said Crookedstar, now they were headed towards the shrine. 

“I am,” said Silverpaw. “It’s just sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t _want_ anything more than what I have. Everyone else is happy.”

“And you’re not?” 

“I _am_ happy,” she said, with sudden vehemence. “I love Riverclan. I’m supposed to be here.” She paused for a moment. “I just feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, too.” 

“Willowstorm used to talk just like that,” said Crookedstar. “Some days, she’d be full of this energy from nowhere—wouldn’t be able to rest, wouldn’t be able to keep her paws still. Pace around the campsite. Hailstar used to send her out hunting just so she had something to do, even in the middle of the day. ‘Unsettled,’ she called it.” 

“That’s a good word for it,” said Silverpaw. 

“Perhaps you should talk to Greypool about this feeling,” said Crookedstar. “She used to say it was ‘the call of the wold’ when she and Willowstorm talked. She might understand how you feel.”

Crookedstar stopped beside the overgrown hedge where a beech tree loomed overhead. Lying under a privet bush some length away was a skinny black shape with vivid green eyes. 

“N’hyara,” said Rookstream, slinking from the shadow. “I did hear you say Greypool but I’m afraid she’s been and gone.”

“N’hyara,” said Crookedstar, padding over to greet the elder. “That’s all right. Silverpaw and I would like to visit the shrine.” 

“Of course, storm-touched,” said Rookstream, dipped his head respectfully. “I will assume you’re clean?”

He said this while looking at Silverpaw, who had been roughly grooming herself since they arrived. 

“Yes,” said Crookedstar. “I swam just before dusk and groomed myself at camp. I’m sure Silverpaw swam earlier too.”

She nodded as she finished cleaning behind her ears. 

“This way, then,” said Rookstream, and led them further along the fence hidden entirely by shrubs and lined by trees. 

Crowded in by privet and spindle and dog rose, almost perfectly hidden, except if you knew where to look, there was a dark space in the hedge. 

“You go first,” said Crookedstar to Silverpaw. “I’ll wait here.”

Silverpaw nodded and disappeared into the tunnel of leaves. 

Rookstream had returned to his place below the privet some way back, waiting to greet the next Riverclan cats to come seeking the shrine. 

The solitude was not unwelcome, though. Crookedstar lay in the cool grass and let the dark grief ebb over him, the full weight of missing Willowstorm settling on him like rain into a puddle. 

Silverpaw loved Willowstorm like a favourite piece of history, something comforting and familiar but distant enough not to hurt in the recounting. She had been raised by Sagefur, alongside Grasspaw and Starlingpaw, and although Crookedstar knew she would have loved to have been raised by Willowstorm as well, he was glad that she didn’t feel the same kind of loss he often did. Most of the time as she was growing up, her interest in Willowstorm was a kind of probing curiosity, always looking for bits and pieces of her mother to see in herself and preen about. 

If he was honest with himself, Crookedstar had often done the same with Silverpaw. She was not entirely like her mother, but instead the best combination of them both. 

Although he had loved Willowstorm, he could admit she was far from the most beautiful cat in Riverclan. She had an unattractive Windclan-ish legginess, long-boned and skinny-looking no matter how well she ate, with a rat-thin tail and her ears too big and wide-set upon her head. Her pelt had been the dull grey of willow bark, jagged with stripes.

But it was her eyes that Crookedstar remembered most fondly. They too had been slightly off-putting: intense and protruding, but gloriously amber and full of the same curiosity he saw in Silverpaw. 

In Silverpaw, Crookedstar saw echoes of Willowstorm in the elegant shape of her ears and face and in the sharpness of her blue eyes, and echoes of himself in the glossy density of her lustrous pelt and her wide, well-webbed paws. Somehow their two uglinesses had made this perfect creature, this unabashed pride of Riverclan, and Crookedstar liked to believe that it was love. No matter how misfortunate her birth, there was no doubting that Starclan looked favourably upon Silverpaw: no cat so lovely, so clearly consecrated by River’s blood, the elders had reassured him long ago, could possibly be cursed. 

_Be grateful_, they had told him. _You have yet again been given a gift in the middle of tragedy, weather-teller_. 

Silverpaw stepped out from the darkness of the shrine tunnel. 

“Wait for me here,” he told her. She nodded and flopped onto her side in the grass where he had been laying. 

Crookedstar dipped his head to step inside, feeling the brush of twigs along his sides as he padded into the depth of the hedge. The tunnel wasn’t long; it led under the dense cluster of privet to the base of an ancient wych elm that grew beside the road, surrounded on every side with a cloister of various shrubs.

There was a large hollow in the trunk, with enough space for several cats to sit without touching. Crookedstar leaped up into the hollow. 

The shrine was full of fresh flowers, already beginning to wilt. The walls of the hollow were scored with thousands of claw marks: every warrior of Riverclan had placed their mark here, ever since the clan began. 

In the centre of the hollow, trinkets and treasures of all kinds were piled up around a chunk of crystal stone at least twice the size of any cat’s head. With no moonlight or starlight to shine on it, it did not glitter the way the Moonstone did; instead, its pale shape seemed to absorb light, making the whole hollow darker the longer Crookedstar looked at it. 

Riverclan called it the beckon stone. It didn’t have the powers of the Moonstone but, on no-moon night, when the ancestors in Starclan were able to come up through the river from the other world, it was the beckon stone that would call to them through the darkness. 

Crookedstar lay down in front of it, aware that he was now surrounded by the unseen, watchful spirits of ancient Riverclan. There was no sound in the shrine, no breath of wind, but he still felt as though the air tingled around him. 

“I miss you,” he said to Willowstorm. There was no need for formality here, in the shrine. This place was for speaking honestly to the much-loved departed, not asking for wisdom or offering prayer. “But our daughter is doing well, as I’m sure you saw. She wishes she could know you better.”

There was, of course, no reply. 

“I am thinking it’s nearly time for her to go on an expedition into the town, practice for our next raid,” he continued. “She seems like she might have your talent for it. She’s definitely got your Windclan waywardness.” He paused a moment, coaxing himself to tell the full truth. “I’ll admit, I haven’t wanted to let her go yet. Sometimes all I see is the tiny kitten by your side when I look at her, and sometimes all I can see is the young warrior who won’t want to play pouncing with me anymore.”

He sighed. 

“I know, I know. Whether I like it or not, she’s going to get older and want to do things her way—and since she’s so much your daughter, she’s not going to listen to me anyway when I say not to, so I might as well learn how to live with it.” He could imagine Willowstorm’s wry look, the way her ears used to twist and say so much without speaking. “I just worry about her. And I owe it to you to keep her safe.”

In the comforting wood-scented dark, he could imagine Willowstorm lying beside him, her tail over his. 

“I should go,” Crookedstar said eventually. “She’s probably out there now, thinking about bothering Rookstream for something to do,” said Crookedstar, by way of farewell. “I can’t imagine where she gets that from, since I remember someone saying once that_ I_ could win a waiting-in-one-place-and-being-boring competition against a rock.”

They had both been apprentices then, Willowpaw leaping over him and taunting, trying to get him to play with her. In the end, he had sent her accidentally tumbling down the bank into the river and then had to fish her out again, because she had never been a good swimmer. They’d both clumped back to camp covered in mud and dripping from the ear-tips and profoundly happy. 

“I love you,” said Crookedstar.

Outside, Silverpaw was batting a particularly long stem of sedge this way and that, but looked up as soon as Crookedstar emerged from the tunnel. 

“You always take so long,” she said, then looked embarrassed. 

“I have a lot of people to talk to,” said Crookedstar, but he was kind about it. “One day, you’ll be having to tell me about all the gossip each no-moon night.”

She made a face. 

“Come on,” said Crookedstar. “Thank Rookstream and we’ll head back to camp.” 

Silverpaw dashed over to the elder, who nodded to them both and wished them well. 

They travelled to the dirt path in thoughtful silence, until Silverpaw said, “About before.”

“What about it?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” There was an unhappy set to her ears. “I know you don’t get much time to talk to… people you miss. Like Willowstorm. I’m sorry. I was being impatient.”

“I understand,” said Crookedstar. “I know it can be boring.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s still important. To you, I mean.” 

Crookedstar looked at her, padding beside him through the rippling grass. Her silvery fur sparkled and gleamed under the starlight and, for a moment, it was so easy to see the elegant young warrior she was going to be before much longer: someone kind and stubborn and, hopefully, wise. 

“Thank you,” said Crookedstar. “That means a lot.”

Silverpaw gave a self-conscious shrug of her shoulders. Then there was a familiar cheeky twist to her ears. 

“_But_,” she said, whiskers twitching, “it _did_ take kind of a long time…”

Crookedstar glanced at her. 

“How about you race me home?” said Silverpaw, before bounding a few lengths ahead. 

“You think you can beat me?” said Crookedstar.

“Oh, yes!” said Silverpaw, crouching as if ready to spring. “Windclan in these veins!” 

“My legs are a lot longer,” said Crookedstar, “so I’ll give you a headstart.”

“Don’t need it!” said Silverpaw, but she dashed off anyway and, a few heartbeats later, Crookedstar bounded after her, a bright gladness in his heart as big as the missing moon. 

Eventually, Silverpaw would outgrow him, but not just yet, and that was enough for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> _I’m gonna stand guard,_   
_like a postcard of a golden retriever,_   
_and never leave ‘til I leave you_   
_with a sweet dream in your head._
> 
> — Father and Daughter, by Paul Simon.


End file.
